Hits keep rolling

Gavin had his evaluation with the developmental pediatrician today. Not that we ever saw anyone with MD after their name; the evaluation was performed by a social worker and a nurse. Coincidentally, I used to work with the nurse who performed the eval so I felt a tad but more comfortable flashing her my boobs ten million times, rather than a stranger, while trying to nurse Grace while Grace tried to watch Gavin screaming his head off.

And frickin'-frackin'-son-of-a-motherless-goat, you know they had to bring up the "A" word. For those who don't have a two year old speech delayed boy, the "A" word is autism and my how those in the medical field love to throw it around like candy off a float in a parade. It hurts a hell of a lot worse to get slapped in the face with the word "autism" than with a stale tootsie roll, I can tell you that much. Even though I had prepared myself and I knew they were going to bring it up and I totally knew it was coming, when she asked me if I was "open" to the idea of autism, I felt the tears well up in my eyes and told her yes but I was more "open" to the idea of Gavin being a weird, speech delayed toddler than "autistic". For boys who are speech delayed, the autism diagnosis follows them around like the cloud of dirt behind Pig Pen on the Peanuts.

I swear to God if I actually thought he was autistic I may not get as upset over it but all I want to do is yell "Hello, people, he has half my DNA!! Of course he is weird, screams a lot, and can't talk!! Spend a little time with me and you'll see the apple didn't fall too far from the tree!!!!".